


The History of Lights and Shadows

by Kataclysmic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Written Pre-Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 18:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10905255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kataclysmic/pseuds/Kataclysmic
Summary: Draco Malfoy storms past Hermione before she has a chance to turn him out on his ear. He's cold and damp and furious. His mother is dead and his father in prison. He's turning to a Mudblood for help. His hair is frizzing. Itcannotget any worse than this.Getting drunk on muggle alcohol, and kissing Granger in her mother's front room is so very different to what he had ever known of sex and romance and growing-up, but not entirely unwelcome.





	The History of Lights and Shadows

They've split up for the first few weeks of the holidays, the trio. Harry has to go back to the Dursleys', renew his last year of protection. Hermione was invited to the Burrow, but Bill was still recovering and she'd not wanted to intrude. Her parents, of course, had chosen a time when she'd needed their normalcy and warm, comforting presence the most, to go on a last minute holiday to Tenerife. But Hermione Granger is nothing if not a pragmatist - and as well, she supposes, a person who doesn't like not being occupied - and she makes a special request to a few libraries and soon her parents well furnished living room is hidden beneath volumes of wizarding texts.  
  
She pours over them, learning their secrets; magics and curses they're not taught at school but will _need_. She won't fail Harry.  
  
There's a soft, familiar 'pop' above the patter of the rain outside. The doorbell rings. Hermione takes two calming breaths and tries to counsel herself that this will not be Remus or Tonks bearing bad news. She's a Gryffindor. She's brave. She can take this. She leaves her open book on the kitchen table and makes her way through to the hall, taking two more deep breaths before opening the door.  
  
  
.  
  
  
Draco Malfoy storms past Hermione before she has a chance to turn him out on his ear. He's cold and damp and furious. His mother is dead and his father in prison. He's turning to a Mudblood for help. His hair is frizzing. It _cannot_ get any worse than this.  
  
He's followed into the kitchen, and he is slightly amused to find her steps are cautious and hesitant: she's afraid of him. Of course. He throws his wand on the kitchen table - she jumps as soon as he pulls it from his pocket - and holds his hands up in defeat. "This isn't a trap or a plot to kill you or Potter or a cunning Slytherin plan to kidnap you. This is me, throwing myself at your mercy." He pauses, then admits, "I need your help, Granger."  
  
Her eyes narrow suspiciously, barely visible beneath the tangles of hair falling into her face. "You're not on our side, Malfoy. We don't help out the enemy."  
  
"Oh come on," he protests. "You're the good guys. You help soddin' house elves. You can help _me_... can't you?" And yes, he sounds a little desperate, but if he's being honest with himself, he is more than a little desperate.  
  
  
.  
  
  
Hermione pushes a mug of hot chocolate in front of Draco and sits opposite him at the kitchen table, fingering her own mug.  
  
"You're evil," she tells him softly. She knows she shouldn't be so judgmental; things are never as black and white as good and evil, but the war has made her tired and pessimistic. She doesn't want him coming to her for help because then he isn't entirely evil, and it makes her doubt some of the rest of them. How will she fight these people if she doesn't truly believe they are all against her?  
  
"I didn't kill Dumbledore," he tells her quietly. " _He_ was going to kill my mother if I didn't, and I tried, but I couldn't. Honestly, I'm not a -"  
  
"I know," she interrupts, before his tirade can get anymore pathetic. "Harry was there, immobilised, under his cloak. He told me everything. You might want to rethink your sob story before you continue."  
  
He pauses then, and looks a little put out. Hermione guesses he was going to elaborate on the truth to win her over. He sighs. "The point is I didn't kill him."  
  
She sighs, exasperated, and pushes her hair out of her eyes. "What do you want then, Malfoy?"  
  
_My mother_ , Draco thinks. _My book collection. A glass of my father's brandy. A hug from Pansy._ There are the simple answers, truths, but he doesn't want to expose himself to her anymore than he must. Then, he spots a packet of biscuits in the pantry, and realises how very hungry he is.  
  
"Can I have a biscuit?"  
  
"You're throwing yourself at my mercy for a chocolate digestive?" she scoffs, but reaches for the packet and offers him one all the same.  
  
He accepts. "Don't be a twat, Granger. I ran away from Snape's protection and _he_ is out for my blood. I fucked up, just like my father. He already... my mother..." he falters, and embarrassingly, his voice cracks. He swallows, dryly, and his eyes burn. He won't cry in front of Granger. Won't.  
  
A warm hand grips his on the tabletop and there's Granger, smiling sadly at him.  
  
Hermione realises how very dangerous sharing hot chocolate and biscuits alone with Draco Malfoy is, and knows that offering him a place to stay may constitute as the most stupid thing she has ever done. But. He has honestly sad eyes that remind her of Harry when he talks of his parents, or Professor Lupin when he talks of Sirius. Neville. Luna. Hannah. Susan. Sad eyes of the people left behind, and Draco is no different.  
  
His hand is clammy beneath hers, and shakes just a touch. She remembers Myrtle telling her about the sad blond boy who cried in the u-bend of the first-floor girls’ toilets. Her heart breaks for him.  
  
.  
  
  
Hermione tells Draco he can stay with her for the three weeks her parents are away, but afterwards he must make his peace with Snape and return to his protection. She also refuses him his wand, and tells him her bedroom door will be locked and he mustn't play with knives. Draco accepts, but crosses his fingers behind his back. They don't trust each other in the slightest, but there's a need for something that gravitates them towards each other.  
  
She doesn't write and tell Harry and Ron that he's with her, even though he tells her he won't hold it against her if they were to come charging through her front door and beat him up. She tells him that despite her better judgement she's going to place this modicum of trust in him, and assures him that somewhere, deep inside, he's capable of being a good person. Her hand reaches out for his again, but he recoils.  
  
Hermione teaches him to play Scrabble. She tells him his spelling is appalling and won't let him put 's' or 'ed' at the end of pre-formed words. She also refuses to let him spell 'cunt' or 'orgy.’ He tells her there's no wonder she wins three times in a row if she keeps changing the rules to suit herself. He has enough letters for 'mudblood' if he joined up "mother" and "dark" but she's being nice (she suggested, after telling him he couldn't put an 's' at the end of 'pot' that he could put it at the beginning), and he doesn't want to spoil the mood. They're playing children’s games, behaving almost nicely toward one another. For one afternoon, at least, they're innocents again.  
  
Hermione tries to teach him to cook, but without much success. The best he can muster, when Hermione refuses to help him after tutoring him for several hours in various meals, is a burnt pizza. She eats it even though it’s burnt. He picks at it, and asks her to cook something decent an hour later, which she does.  
  
.  
  
  
When her peculiar talk-box sings and Hermione is in the shower, Draco takes it from its holster and carries it upstairs.  
  
"Granger," he bellows, loudly, so she will hear him over the patter of the water. "Granger, your box is-" he pauses then, being seventeen and realising how inappropriate it would be to talk about his hostess' box. And silly. And something that will plague his mind later that night, nonetheless. "Your teleaudio whatsit is ringing!"  
  
He hears the click of the bathroom lock an instant later, and Hermione appears in a gust of steam, shimmering, wet with delicate water droplets clinging to her skin. She's clutching a towel to her chest, and it slips, just a little, when she grabs her prize from him. This image is another something that will plague Draco later that night.  
  
When she retreats back into the bathroom, she doesn't close the door, nor does she shoo him away. She perches on the toilet lid and chats in delight to whoever is at the other end of the line. He hovers for a moment, in the doorway, watching her. The towel barely scrapes her thighs, barely obscures her damp breasts, and he can't help but stare. He's seventeen, and she has breasts - it's to be expected, really. When she glares at him he gives her a cheeky smirk and trots off downstairs. He hears her mutter "git" and "perverted houseguest" to the unnamed friend, and a moment later, as he helps himself to some biscuits out of the pantry, he swears he hears "fancible.”  
  
He doesn't want to fancy Granger. Doesn't think he would under ordinary circumstances, at least. She's too bossy and too clever, and she won't do as she's told. She has messy hair, and may or may not be going out with one of the Weasley clan. He's not even entirely sure that he does fancy her, but he spends a lot of time at night thinking about her, imagining her in the next room in the little nightdress he spotted on the washing-line. He knows if he slipped downstairs, fished his wand out of the vase that Hermione thinks she has effectively hidden it inside, he could easily go into her room and wouldn't have to imagine any longer. But Draco isn't that much of a git, and he doesn't completely fancy her anyway. He just likes thinking about her. Thinking about her means he doesn't have to think about his dead mother, who will never hold him again, nor the girlfriend or father or friends whom he may never see.  
  
  
.  
  
  
Hermione gets the _Prophet_ delivered every morning. She reads it quickly, scanning for news of the war. There's mention, more and more commonly, of the deaths and the captures of Death Eaters. It's not good news for their side of the war, but they seem to be faring much better than the Death Eaters, who's numbers are beginning to show signs of dwindling. The war is far from over - Voldemort still holds so much power - but there's a little hope, a little light, and she hates being optimistic in the face of the deaths of everyone whom her houseguest holds dear.  
  
She throws the papers into the recycling bin before Draco gets up each morning, and _knows_ he will never fish through tins of beans or empty wine bottles just to read the paper. He has pride, even in the face of all this, and oddly, she admires him for it.  
  
  
.  
  
  
  
Draco will not fish through tins of beans or empty bottles of wine to read the paper, but watching Granger's face through the crack in the door when she reads the paper tells him all he needs to know. They're losing. His father, his friends and his mentors are losing a war whilst he hides with the enemy. He doesn't know if he feels shame or guilt or relief, but when Hermione meets his gaze over breakfast he feels something _entirely_ different.  
  
  
.  
  
  
Despite Hermione's apparent fascination with something on the television called a 'soap' – which, to Draco, has absolutely nothing to do with cleaning and everything to do with talentless muggles making poor attempts at theatrics – Draco cannot begin to appreciate her television. In fact, the only muggle device he has come to appreciate is something that resembles the television, but is in fact called a 'computer', linked to some sort of ‘net’ that Draco doesn't quite understand, and holds on it more pictures of naked women than a year's subscription to _Playwizard_. So whilst Hermione watches her terrible soaps, Draco escapes to the study. He is loath to admit it, but this muggle invention isn't half bad.  
  
“Racquel and Curly just paid nearly two grand for an aromatherapy course... how daft is tha- Oh.” Hermione walks in on him with one hand touching himself and the other inexpertly using the rodent to move around the window.  
  
Draco turns to her, slightly alarmed. He tries to tuck himself back into his trousers and close the computer off at the same time, but the sight of Hermione all flustered and blushing makes him fumble more than he would later like to admit.  
  
“Oh, um. Sorry...” she stumbles, but appears to be rooted to the spot, her blushing gaze never leaving Draco's. “It was the break and I was going to see if you wanted... but you're... well.” She pauses, and though Draco remains silent – mortified, to a point – he wonders why she's not throwing something at him or running out of the room in embarrassed tears.  
  
“There's tissues on the windowsill,” she finally announces before marching out of the room.  
  
Draco is left intrigued, and even after he finishes himself off, more frustrated than when he began.  
  
.  
  
  
After walking in on him wanking, Hermione spends the evening behaving as normal as she possibly can towards her guest. Still, their conversations are punctuated by awkward silences, and Hermione cannot get the image of him touching himself out of her head. At eleven-thirty she feigns tiredness, and makes a quick escape to bed, hoping that things will be less awkward in the morning.  
  
As she drifts off to sleep, she thinks it unsurprising that he didn't bother to make up some sort of excuse of apologise. He is a Malfoy, after all, she thinks to herself.  
  
She wakes some hours later from a restless sleep filled with dreams that make her blush to half-remember them. She rolls her eyes at her own sleepy-stupidity, and makes her way downstairs for a glass of water.  
  
Before she can fill her glass in the kitchen, she hears a small sniffle coming from the living room. Leaving her glass on the draining board, she wanders into the lounge to find Draco and Crookshanks curled up on the sofa in front of the muted television. Even under the dim, blue light emitted from the television set, Hermione can see Draco's red-rimmed eyes, and damp tracks across his cheeks. Forgetting her earlier discomfort, Hermione makes her way to the sofa, nudges Crookshanks onto the floor, and curls up next to Draco.  
  
He looks at her, questioning her, but she simply wraps her arms around his shoulders and kisses his temple like her mother does to her when she's feeling down. Draco's breath hitches against her neck as he curls into her, and Hermione wonders if the action is reminiscent of his late mother, too. He is quiet against her, but her neck quickly grows damp from hot tears. She's at a loss for words for how to help him with his grief after he's held it locked inside for so long, so she just holds him, and wonders to herself why it took him until now to properly cry.  
  
She does not suppose that Draco sits in front of the muted television until the early hours nearly every evening, hot tears burning behind his eyes that he refuses to let fall as he mourns the loss of his family.  
  
Later, when Draco has calmed, and Hermione's arms ache from holding him, they extricate themselves from one another. Hermione is surprised how cool the room has grown, without his body warming her, and her bed is enticing once again.  
  
“You feeling a little better now?” she asks, as they both stand and she makes her way towards the door.  
  
He nods his assent, but stubbornly looks at the floor.  
  
“You know where I am if you need me,” she tells him, not really expecting much of a reply.  
  
He nods again, and Hermione sighs and opens the door.  
  
“Granger,” he calls quietly, before she is completely out of the room. It's the first thing he's said since she's come downstairs. “Sorry about earlier... with your Dad's computer.”  
  
Hermione exhales, laughing quietly. “It's okay, Draco.”  
  
.  
  
  
Three days before her parents are due to return and hours after he has sent an owl to Snape apologising for his rash behaviour weeks before, Hermione introduces Draco to muggle alcohol.  
  
"I'm surprised I didn't get ID’ed," she tells him when she returns from the shops with a bottle of something that sounds Russian. "It's vodka, a spirit. You can drink it in shots or with a mixer."  
  
He doesn't know what any of this means and doesn't think to ask. Her muggle alcohol burns his throat and makes him forget about the other, unmentionable burns that sound in his dreams like 'mother.’  
  
"You should probably slow down," Hermione advises him after his third "shot.” "It can hit you pretty quickly, especially if you're not used to drinking."  
  
Draco shakes his head. "I can handle my drink, Granger. I'm not some silly fourteen-year-old Hufflepuff with his first Firewhiskey." But half an hour later he thinks maybe he is a bit like some silly Hufflepuff, because he is telling Granger, in a rather pathetic voice, how much he misses Pansy, how much he hates Potter, and how nice her hair smells. She laughs at him (which doesn't improve his mood any), and summons him a glass of water. She's been drinking too, and it spills half on his trousers, and a little bit on her thin skirt. Draco struggles to draw his heavy gaze away from the wet fabric, and the flesh of her thigh he can half-see through it.  
  
He knows he should be thinking how really fucking stupid this is, because - however nice she smells - Granger is still good and pure and still the enemy, but as his gaze tears from her wet thigh and travels up her body, he struggles to think about anything other than how much he wants to touch her and how incredibly – unbelievably - _nice_ she has been toward him.  
  
.  
  
  
Draco keeps looking at her, and his fingers keep creeping towards her and then drawing back, as if he's catching himself just in time. It isn't helping Hermione any either, who has just discovered that she's a pretty cheap drunk when on spirits. She's half-thinking to herself that she doesn't want him to catch himself, that she wants his fingers to reach all the way out and _touch_ her. Of course, she's not going to tell him so, because that really would be stupid, so she reaches for the bottle and pours them each another measure, forgetting that she'd summoned the water to right the affects of the vodka.  
  
Another two shots later, and there's not much vodka left, but a good deal of it has been spilt on the carpet, as well as being consumed. Rather worse for wear, Hermione decides that the only good thing about a near-empty bottle of vodka, is that it can be used for games.  
  
“What in the name of Merlin's dirty socks are you talking about, Granger?” Draco asks, slurring slightly at his ‘s'.  
  
Hermione rolls her eyes and pushes against him. They're sitting extremely close on the floor, leaning against each other and back against the sofa. “Spin the bottle,” she tells him again. “It's a muggle drinking game, but I suppose we've already done rather a lot of drinking...”  
  
“Oh really,” Draco snarks back. “Do you suppose?”  
  
“Oh hush,” she berates him good-naturedly. The vodka has worn thin her worries and left her rather wobbly, but with somewhat of a mellowness about her. This is what her life is supposed to be: Saturday nights spent playing drinking games and flirting harmlessly, not battle-strategies and name-calling. “You spin the bottle, and whoever it lands on has to choose between truth, dare and a kis-”  
  
The word is half out of her mouth when he leans forward and kisses her, and the game explanation is out of her mind as she's consumed totally by him; his lips on hers, his tongue edging into her mouth, and his hands, creeping up her body and brushing hesitantly against her breasts. It's not unexpected, but it's still a delicious surprise as delighted shock creeps from her lips and down her spine to between her legs. They've grown closer, having quelled their mutual animosity, and without that there was little to prevent an attraction blooming. Lock two hormone-addled teens in a house together for three weeks and give them a bottle of vodka - this was almost inevitable. What Hermione hadn't counted on, however, were the feelings that just Draco's touch against her would evoke.  
  
.  
  
  
He hadn't planned on kissing her. Draco has thought about it an awful lot, especially given his private refusal to think about certain other things, but he hadn't intended on _actually_ kissing her. But here she is, practically sitting in his lap with her lips pressed against his, and it is mostly his own doing. She tastes like alcohol and old sugar, and he'd like to imagine she smells like some sort of flower he doesn't quite recognise, but he might be imagining that one.  
  
She arches and writhes against him, and it's all so natural and unrehearsed. Different from kissing Pansy, who didn't ever want to smudge her make-up and perfect hair, and had turned kissing and touching into a well-choreographed dance. This – getting drunk on muggle alcohol, and kissing Granger in her mother's front room – is so very different to what he had ever known of sex and romance and growing up, but not entirely unwelcome, even after the rest of his world has twisted and changed around him. This is one change he could live with.  
  
.  
  
  
When Draco wakes the next morning he feels like there is a bludger bouncing around inside his head where his brain should be, and he feels peculiar inside. He doesn't much remember of what happened the night before either, but his hands and crotch are sticky, and Hermione is on the floor, retching and naked.  
  
He spends a moment taking in the situation, the rather wretched vision in front of him, before guessing what transpired the night before and promptly passes out.  
  
When he wakes an hour later, Hermione is curled up on the floor in front of the bed. The mess gone and her fingers are curling round her wand. Draco hates to admit it, but he's impressed she could clean and banish the mess so effectively in the state she was in. His head is still pounding, but his stomach has mostly settled so he ventures from the bed and makes his way to the bathroom to clean up, stepping delicately over the naked figure on the floor.  
  
When he returns, she hasn't moved a muscle, and she still looks rather white and spiteful so he takes pity on her. Taking no note of their nudity, thinking modesty irrelevant after what no doubt transpired the previous night, he scoops her up in his arms and deposits her safely under the covers. Despite his lack of modesty, despite his knowledge that he probably shagged her last night, Draco feels something hot and strange swoop through him as he holds her naked body to his for a moment.  
  
Before he joins her on the bed, he summons a glass of water, knowing she'll need it when she wakes if she feels even half as bad as he did.  
  
.  
  
  
Breakfast is an awkward affair at three in the afternoon: late enough that they're both famished, but their stomachs are settled and headaches eased. Hermione is reminded of the evening weeks ago, when they had been dancing around each other, so embarrassed, after she had walked in on him in the study. Of course, this is so much more awkward, and she's saddened by the fact they'll never have the chance to remedy the situation one way or another.  
  
Snape's owl arrives after Draco has given up on toast and moved on to a packet of digestive biscuits.  
  
“Make us a hot chocolate, will you, Granger?” Draco demands, and Hermione snorts in response, rather unsurprised how even in the face of such awkwardness, some things never change.  
  
Draco reads the letter aloud to her as she switches on the kettle and begins spooning the chocolate powder. Snape is – unsurprisingly - furious at Draco running from his protection (the details of which, Hermione is still unsure of). He'll be coming to collect Draco within the hour, and Hermione cannot decide if she is relieved or not. Certainly she'll be in less danger, and she won't have to face the awkward situation with Draco for any longer than the next several hours, but this ready relief is tinged with just the slightest glint of regret, for the previous night's activities hadn't been _entirely_ the result of vodka, and Draco had been so kind to her that morning, being oddly sympathetic to her hangover when she didn't really deserve any pity because it had all been self-inflicted.  
  
“Well, Granger,” he says after finishing the letter. “Thanks for having me. I better go and pack.”  
  
Once he's slipped out of the room, Hermione gives a huge sigh that, somewhere along the line, bursts into a sob. Her breath hitches, and she claps her hand over her mouth, furiously blinking back tears.  
  
Thirty minutes later the mug in her fingers has cooled, and Hermione has come to the conclusion that Draco's meagre possessions would not take _this_ long to pack, no matter how much he dilly-dallied. So she ventures upstairs after him.  
  
Hermione enters the room, not bothering to knock, and then stops suddenly, barely inches into the room once she has reached him. Her eyes slide from Draco's face to the socks he is holding idly in his hand. He doesn't seem to have gotten terribly far with his packing, and Hermione sighs inwardly, aware that he fled the kitchen to avoid her.  
  
“I'll get your wand,” she tells him resignedly. “You probably can't pack normally to save your life.”  
  
He opens his mouth, and she pauses, hoping he will say something. Anything. He doesn't. His mouth closes, and he looks to the socks in his hand hopelessly and shrugs.  
  
.  
  
  
When Snape arrives, he surveys her house with an air of disdain before glaring at Hermione as if Draco's presence at her house was entirely her fault. His gaze shifts to Draco, then back to Hermione, as they stand side-by-side, hands tucked awkwardly behind them.  
  
“Get your things together,” Snape instructs Draco, and Draco doesn't so much as glance at Hermione before he darts upstairs. Snape turns to Hermione, and she half-expects him to shout. Instead he sighs, and he looks older than he ever has to her. “The past few weeks have been... taxing. Don't tell the boy or he'll think he actually made a good decision, but being here - out of my care - probably saved his life.”  
  
For a second, Hermione half-wonders (and much to her personal embarrassment, half-hopes) that Snape might suggest that Draco stay a little longer.  
  
Snape catches the look on Hermione's face. “Oh, don't be such a silly girl – he's _nothing_ to you, and the sooner you get that out of your head, the better.”  
  
“I don't...” Hermione stutters. Her head is still spinning a little, and she can feel bile rising in her throat. “I don't know what you mean. Sir.”  
  
Snape exhales loudly, snorting at her. “Of course you don't,” he replies sarcastically. “You think I haven't spent enough time around lovestruck young teenagers to know when a pair are mooning over each other? It's quite ridiculous, and the situation that yourself and the boy are in – well, it's best you just forget this little incident ever happened.”  
  
Hermione's lips tighten in annoyance, but he's a teacher, so she feels she ought to answer respectfully. “Sir, there's been no _incident_ ,” she tells him, lying through her teeth. “Nothing is going on between Draco and me.”  
  
“Thanks Granger,” Draco suddenly announces from behind. She turns to find him plodding down the stairs, toting a miniaturized version of his luggage. “It's nice to know you thought so highly on last night.”  
  
“I don't even _remember_ last night,” she bites out through gritted teeth, all the while feeling a blush creep around her face.  
  
Draco's face flickers with something Hermione only half-recognises, before he flippantly replies, “Gosh, I'm hurt.”  
  
His gaze catches hers then, and as uncomfortable as his heated eyes on her makes her feel, Hermione cannot look away. It's like he's telling her something in a different language, telling her words that snare around her mind that she can't quite comprehend. She can half-feel his voice whispering in her mind, but the loud silence of her own mind drowns out his words, and she is left in the dark, unable to understand.  
  
“Draco,” Snape says curtly, interrupting their silent exchange. “We're expected – we should leave shortly.”  
  
“Right, alright then,” Draco replies, distractedly. He shoves his tiny suitcase into his pocket, and approaches Hermione. They both turn to look at Snape, and he rolls his eyes at the pair, before advancing out of the front door. He doesn't quite close it, and Hermione thinks it's probably for the best.  
  
Draco takes another step closer to her, and Hermione's weary mind is spinning now from something else entirely different to a hangover. “Thank you, Granger,” he tells her quietly, and he doesn't even have to say why; Hermione knows it's not just for her hospitality.  
  
“Oh Draco,” she replies softly. She wants to say something more meaningful, more substantial, but for the first time in a good long while, Hermione has nothing to say.  
  
Draco launches forward, and for a heart-stopping instant, Hermione thinks Draco is going to kiss her, but instead, his head falls to her shoulder as he pulls her to him, and he holds her tightly. Hermione closes her eyes, and wraps her arms tightly around him, knowing this might be the last time she ever has to touch this boy who has become so familiar to her.  
  
Then, as quickly as he pulled her to him, he retreats. “See you then,” he says as he advances out of the front door, leaving Hermione alone in the house.  
  
The front door closes with a soft crunch-clunk, and Hermione backs into it, sinking against it for support. She can't imagine why her heart feels like it has suddenly relocated to her throat, nor why her belly is tied up in horrible knots. Hot tears coat her eyes and threaten to fall, but until she can figure out exactly why, she refuses to shed them. _Draco was nothing more than a houseguest_ , she tries to counsel herself. With whom she had had too much to drink, and may or may not have slept with. But, logically, he should have been nothing more to her.  
  
Trying to list exactly what part of herself had given into feelings – which part had betrayed her normally logical and pragmatic self - was like trying to list exactly what it was she felt for him; as impossible as trying to give the history of lights and shadows, and something she'd rather not dwell on.  
  
With a great sigh, Hermione stands up, brushes the dust of her clothes, and fiercely blinks back tears. There are mere weeks left until the end of the summer, until a war must be fought. And so with a great feeling of determination, Hermione delves back into her books, which had sat untouched for three weeks. She knows it silly, to behave as if nothing happened – to follow _Snape_ 's advice, of all people – but she struggles to find it in herself to think of any other solution. She munches absently on a packet of biscuits that Draco had left the day before and tries to ignore the feeling of regret that glosses over her when she spots the empty bottle that sits abandoned in the corner.  
  
\-- end.


End file.
